


Mother Courage

by ButterflyGhost



Category: due South
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Gen, Murder, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost





	Mother Courage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SLWalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/gifts), [kalijean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/gifts).



Margarita Gómez thought she had seen monsters, every stinking depth that man could sink to. She'd gone beyond fear, beyond disgust even. She'd hunkered in on herself, keeping the children close to her, like a spider clutching her eggs. Day after night after night after day she endured. She never spoke first. She cooked his meals, laughed at his jokes, submitted to his touch. And she could bear it. She really thought that she could bear it. To give the children a father, a roof over their heads. Her family were all so proud of her... “Margarita married a doctor, she's done so well for herself.” So she smiled, and hid the bruises, for the children's sake. So that they could have everything she never had growing up.

She honestly thought it was worth the price she had to pay. Until the morning that she saw him look at Carmencita, and smile just the wrong way. 

That woke her up. She woke up, and saw what he had done. To her, to the children. Saw the greater harm that he could yet do.

So, when he was away for 'business', she packed her bags, put the children into one of his cars, and ran.

She discovered that she was good at running. First she drove south, knowing that he would think she might return that way, to be with her family. But once the car was ditched she took the children, and got on board a train. They went west. By the time they were on a coach heading north she thought she might have shaken him off her trail. Of course, many people ran away to America, but he could never be sure. Not after the trail of confusion she had left in her wake.

She thought she had shaken him, but she could never quite be sure. In a crowded street she'd flinch, seeing him. Rafael, the beautiful, Rafael the cruel.

So they moved, city to city, neighbourhood to neighbourhood, never putting down roots. Until at last they arrived in Chicago, and she thought...

I'm so tired. Stop running. It will be okay. It has to be, it has to be okay.

And it should have been okay... it should have been okay. She thought that she knew monsters...

And now this.

She should have kept on running.

Mario is the only one left now. The others must have succumbed, either to the violence, or disease. Whether they are dead or undead, she doesn't know, but she does know that she can never get to them now. She can't bear to think about it, her babies, being beaten, being bitten, as though every zombie out there was the shadow of Rafael. If she hadn't stopped running, then the children would never have been registered, never gone to school, and this wouldn't have happened. She could have kept them all safe. Kept them all together, all running.

This is her fault.

But she still has Mario.

The zombies had come seething through the neighbourhood in the early afternoon, with the suddenness and inevitability of a riot, but there was nobody to respond to the screaming. No police available, though there were uniforms among the armies of the undead.

She wonders is there any memory in the filthy things of their prior lives. Do the ex doctors, ex police men, ex lorry drivers... do they wonder what their uniforms mean? Do they realise, as they bite their wives, their children, what they are doing? Are they screaming too, inside?

How she managed to get both herself and Mario through the fire, and the screaming, and the hot press and filth of it she doesn't know. She's covered in blood, and her arms are aching, and her hands are curled into claws from clutching the bat. Mario was a big boy now, but she made him ride on her back, told him to hang on tight, close his eyes. And she'd waded through Hell, kicking, and swinging, and slugging, and she never knew she had so much fight left in her. And finally, finally she had got them both through. A miracle, somewhere they could be safe... for at least a little while. A pharmacy, defensible, metal shutters that can be pulled down, locks that can be drawn shut from the inside. A haven, abandoned by its owner, and for some reason overlooked, while outside all Hell breaks, and keeps on breaking loose.

In her previous life, before America, before the children, before Rafael, Margarita had been a nurse. She lost even the qualification when she fled, living under the radar. Since then she has cleaned hotels, stables, washed dishes, bathed the elderly, picked strawberries, potatoes, bagged groceries. Disposable labourer, invisible, blessedly ignored. But she still knows medicine. She still knows disease.

And that's why she realises she was wrong. This wasn't a miracle. It was just another twist of the knife. They can't run any further, it's too late. They got here too late. Mario is sick.

“Sweetheart, honey, come here, let me see?”

He's crying, frightened. He's burning up.

“It's okay Mario, baby, it's okay. It's only a little cut.”

“She bit me Mama, that woman bit me.”

“I know, she's a very bad woman. But don't worry baby, it will be all right.”

She's so good at telling soothing lies to settle crying children. So good at pretending that the monster on the stairs isn't coming for her, so good at protecting her children from the truth. From fear.

So she lies, and kisses him, and smooths his dank hair, curled black and sticking to his forehead. 

“Mama, I don't feel good.”

She knows what she has to do, but she can't do it. She can't inflict violence on her little baby. She shuts her eyes and prays. Oh sweet Mother, what do I do? There is no answer. As God and his Mother look away, a hardness settles in her heart, like frost. She knows what she has to do, and she can do it.

She brings him water, and the tablets. “This will make you feel better, my love.”

“What is it Mama?”

“It's an anti emetic. It's to stop you being sick.” That much is true. She doesn't want her hard to work to go to waste by having him throw up the sleeping tablets. He takes them, and pulls a face. “These ones here will help you sleep.” He looks up at her trusting, and takes them. She makes herself smile. “Good boy, good boy. You'll feel better in the morning.”

His fever is climbing, but he's blessedly drifting now, and smiles back up at her. “Goodnight Mama, I love you.”

“I love you too baby boy. Good night, my love, good night.” And she kisses him, smiles her last ever smile, knowing that it is the last thing he will see before the lights go out.

As his eyes close her hot tears fall upon his face.

When he is cool and she feels no pulse it is her turn. For him she had made it gentle, for her, she makes it fast. She has no knife, no gun, and her only choice is poison. She gulps it down, hard and bitter, and prays to the deaf Virgin that she will see her children again. And the Virgin doesn't say a word.

She crawls up next to her son's body, and takes him in her arms, and holds him, as tightly as she can, while the drugs kick in and wrack her, and darkness descends. And thank God, she feels her heart beat slow, and sees the light recede, and life. 

The bodies stiffen as night falls. 

Sometime toward midnight, Mario opens his eyes.


End file.
